Read Online The Duke's Holiday by Maggie Fenton - Free Book Online Page B

take sugar, Your Grace? No? Milk? Of course you
do.” She upturned a pitcher of milk over the edge of the cup, until the liquid
sloshed over the top. Then she stirred it half-heartedly, tossed the spoon
aside, and rose to hand him the offending cup.
    He took it in hand because he was certain she would let it
drop on his lap if he didn’t. He took a deep, calming breath, and returned to
the subject at hand. “Miss Honeywell, I am sure I don’t know what you mean, as
I am quite certain the post does not reach you.”
    “Oh, but it does,” she assured him.
    “Since I have sent nearly two dozen letters to this address
in the past fortnight without a response, I am sure it does not.”
    She gazed at him innocently and sipped her tea. “But I have received no letters from Your
Grace. Perhaps they were misdirected.”
    “I did not send them to you .
I sent them to Stevenage.”
    “That would explain it,” she said, though, really, it
explained nothing to his mind. “Madame, the Royal Mail aside, I see no
misunderstanding between us. The terms of the contract are quite clear, to my
mind.”
    “Contract?” she asked, looking perplexed. She dropped four
cubes of sugar into another cup and poured it to the brim with milk. She
stirred it neatly and handed it over to the old woman. “Biscuit, aunt?”
    “Why, yes. Two. Young man, you must have a biscuit,” the old woman stated. “They are quite simply
delicious. Astrid makes them herself.” She beamed at the younger woman.
    “No, thank you.” He refused to be distracted, despite his
gnawing hunger. “Miss Honeywell, you know quite well what contract I speak of,
as you yourself made reference to it earlier in the day.”
    “I do not recall having made reference to any contract.
Wouldn’t you like a biscuit? You must be famished after the journey. Your long, unnecessary journey. They are quite
good, and I do make them myself. An old recipe from my Scotch grandmother.” She
stuck the tray of biscuits under his nose.
    He began to wave it away, but the smell of butter and sugar
and vanilla wafted to his nostrils, causing his empty stomach to protest in
agony. He took one with a great show of reluctance and bit into it.
    And was immediately transported to heaven.
    The crumbs melted on his tongue in a symphony of sweet,
buttered perfection. He barely suppressed a groan, closed his eyes and leaned
back against the seat, his body suddenly boneless.
    He forgot everything, including who he was, until the
biscuit was devoured. Then he opened his eyes and found the redhead regarding
him with a quizzical expression. He straightened, reality crashing back down on
his shoulders. Damn. She was good. “Miss Honeywell, I shall not be sidetracked.
I am here to…”
    “Astrid!” came a strident call from the hallway, cutting
him off. Another female entered the room in a rush. He vaguely recognized her
from the yard and knew immediately it was another Honeywell. Clearly a near
relation to the redhead, but younger, taller, with hair more auburn than red,
and prettier, dressed in a becoming muslin gown. Her eyes widened when she
noticed him, and she skidded to a halt.
    Miss Honeywell rose. The courtesy pounded into him since
the cradle demanded that he rise as well.
    “Your Grace, may I present my sister, Miss Alice Honeywell,”
Miss Honeywell said.
    Miss Alice curtsied prettily and not at all mockingly. He
approved of her immediately.
    “What is it, Alice?” Miss Honeywell asked.
    “It’s Petunia. He’s in the cabbage again.”
    “Well, set Charlie on him, or Mick.”
    “I would, but they’ve gone to the brewery with … er …”
Alice glanced nervously at him. “Roddy.”
    As he hadn’t a clue as to what they were talking about, he
wondered why Alice was so nervous.
    Miss Honeywell looked perturbed. “Well, damn and blast … I
mean, heavens. What a muddle. Find Ant and Art, then, and set them to it.”
    Alice grimaced. “If I could find them, I would.”
    Miss